


Frittata

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 20:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They’ve been playing this game ever since Tim landed gift-wrapped on his doorstep.
Relationships: Tim Stützle/Brady Tkachuk
Comments: 7
Kudos: 138
Collections: anonymous





	Frittata

“ _Frittata_!” Josh yells from the kitchen. He sounds out of breath for some reason. Brady looks up from his phone just in time to catch Tim’s eyes on him. If Tim was looking before, Brady can’t tell. He’s sitting on the other side of the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, and his hair is still wet from practice. He smells good.

The TV’s on, but neither of them are watching.

“What did he say?” Tim asks. Brady shrugs.

“ _Frittata_ or whatever, who knows with that guy.”

They hear cabinets opening and closing, then pots clanking together. Brady clicks his tongue. “Oh shit, he’s making dinner.” He tells Tim in a conspicuous tone, and that makes the kid laugh.

“ _Oh shit_.” He repeats. He lets his head fall over the back of the couch and Brady tries not to stare at the curve of his neck. “Last time wasn’t so bad, like. I liked the steak sauce.”

“Did you now.”

“Yes.”

Brady snorts. “No, you didn’t, you liar.”

Tim laughs again. He’s got a nice laugh. His grin melts down into an equally nice smile, eyes soft and crinkled at the edges, and Brady looks back at his phone before his expression shows too much. “How did you know I was lying?” 

Brady shrugs. “I’m an observant guy.” He answers. Tim has nothing to say to that, and Brady pretends he’s looking at his Instagram feed until he feels Tim’s foot poke into his thigh. Brady grabs his ankle and holds it still. “Jimmy.” He grunts. He didn’t mean for it to come out so rough.

“Brady.” Tim mocks, but his tone is different, too.

Brady glances at him, and Tim’s still smiling in the same lazy way, almost mocking. Tim isn’t mean. He’s earnest, and a little blunt, but not _mean_. Brady slides his thumb under the hem of Tim’s sweatpants and rubs it over the skin. Tim’s chest goes up and down as he takes a deep, deep breath. His eyes never leave Brady’s, and Brady has the distinct impression he’s being fucked with. Tim must know how this looks, the kind of game he wants to play. It’s a dangerous game. Brady never loses. His hand slides up Tim’s ankle, over the shape of his calf muscle, and Tim bites down a sound that shoots right into his dick.

A pan falls in the kitchen and Brady lets go of Tim’s leg like he was burned. 

“I’m okay! Nothing’s broken! I didn’t break anything.” Josh yells.

Brady blows out a breath and gets up.

“We should go see what Joshy’s up to, yeah? Before he burns down the fucking house. C’mon.” Brady babbles, and pulls at the front of his hoodie so it covers the tent in his jeans. Tim’s looking up at him with wide eyes, thighs spread open, cheeks red, and Brady feels crazy. “Come _on_ , rookie.” He repeats, voice hard. Tim visibly swallows and gets up as well. He straightens up too close for comfort, his forehead almost butting into Brady’s chin. Tim won’t meet his eyes anymore. He has his hands fisted by his side, and his shoulders are hunched. He’s pouting. It’d be cute if it didn’t make Brady feel so desperate.

It’s like Tim expected Brady to make a move with Josh in the house. Like he wouldn’t mind a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. Or maybe something else to gag on. The simmering in the low of Brady's stomach starts to boil. 

Tim turns to leave, but Brady stops him with a hand around his arm. Tim’s entire body goes still. “Hey, look at me.” Tim does. He’s the kind of good looking that makes Brady angry. Button nose, bedroom eyes. Thick mouth. Brady grew up resenting pretty boys like him. Then he started fucking them. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Tim breaks eye contact first and looks down at their feet. “Nothing.”

“Then what're you all pouty for?”

"I don’t know what that means, Brady." Tim says, pouting. Brady chews the inside of his cheek, and exhales deeply through his nose. He likes how Tim says his name. He wants to hear it in a voice that's just for him. 

“Like, you’re sulking. You’re upset.” Brady explains. Tim shrugs. “’Thought I told you to look at me. You have to be able to look a guy in eye, hey, Jimmy.” Brady adds. Tim clicks his tongue, and murmurs something under his breath that sounds like German. Brady pulls him closer until their chests touch, and the scent of Tim’s shampoo becomes overwhelming. “What was that?”

The kid is beet red. Brady wonders how far he’s willing to push. Tim looks up, finally, and his eyes are hazy, barely any green left around the pupils. “I said, I’m always looking at you.” Tim says. Before Brady can process that, he goes on his toes and presses his lips against Brady’s cheek. His mouth is soft, like Brady knew it’d be. “ _Du bist der Lügner._ ” Tim murmurs. Brady feels every word against his skin. He doesn’t know what it means, but it doesn’t matter. Tim pushes himself away and, this time, Brady lets him go without complaint.

His smell lingers in the air long after he disappears into the kitchen.

Brady closes his eyes, palms his dick through his jeans, and breathes.

They’ve been playing this game ever since Tim landed gift-wrapped on his doorstep.

If Tim was just another guy, Brady would have gotten it out of his system ages ago. He knows how he’d do it, too. He'd shove Tim against a wall and lift him up in one go, because he's a show off, and Tim would be weak for it. He’d wrap his legs around Brady's waist, and he’d take it just like that. He'd take it so good. They'd watch each other most of the time, unless Tim got embarrassed, or Brady felt like kissing him. They'd kiss way too much. 

Josh bursts out laughing in the kitchen. “Yo, come here, bro, Jimmy doesn’t know what a zucchini is.”

“Embarrassing.” Brady yells back. He lets go of his dick and drags a hand across his face. His fingers falter over his cheek. 

He won't lose. 

**Author's Note:**

> ｡：ﾟ(｡ﾉω＼｡)ﾟ･｡


End file.
